


In Which a Young Man Reluctantly Uses Cannons and an Older One Sticks to Light

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:47:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a quiet moment at the barricade, Combeferre and Valjean have a talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which a Young Man Reluctantly Uses Cannons and an Older One Sticks to Light

**Author's Note:**

> A Barricade Day ficlet, for caerdroia.

"Is your blond friend the commander here?"

The doctor— _Combeferre_ , Valjean remembered—looked up sharply from the wound he was suturing, a bloody tear in the thigh of a stoic artisan. "Enjolras? Yes." 

There was a quiver in Combeferre's voice as he said his friend's name. Valjean recalled the commander's mournful face when he shot the artillery sergeant, recalled the doctor's wish to spare his enemy, and said a silent prayer for all three of the young men. 

"Does he mean to kill the man you have bound inside?" 

"The spy? Yes, of course." Of course. Valjean was unsurprised. Javert was a mouchard; they could not be expected to do anything else with him. 

Combeferre sewed up the last of the wound and looked his taut-faced patient over once more, checking the man to see if he was otherwise well, and receiving a murmured reassurance before the artisan limped away. He then beckoned over the next injured man, a student of perhaps five or six and twenty. His expression, as he examined his new patient, combined a scientific detachment with a tender concern. Valjean regarded him curiously. "Do you agree?" he asked. 

"With killing the spy?" Combeferre threw Valjean a glance that was almost amused. "Yes. I do not like it but I agree with its necessity. Why do you ask?" 

Valjean made no reply, and Combeferre turned his full attention back to his patients. After a moment he asked, his head bent low over the student's arm, "How did you come to be such a good shot?" 

"I was a poacher." There was no sense in lying. He would likely die, and Combeferre would certainly die; there was nothing to gain in hiding his past at this moment, and there was something in this solemn young man that compelled honesty. "In my youth. When I was your age, or perhaps younger still. Of recent years, I have tried to avoid taking any inoffensive life." 

"Or any offensive one, judging by your conduct here," Combeferre said dryly. He finished with the student, sent him on his way, and then turned to face Valjean. "I do not complain; how could I? As Enjolras said: you do not kill but you defend. You simply do not wish to extinguish another man, and I cannot argue against that." 

"You have argued against it within yourself, and defeated it. Or else you would not be here, acting as you do, shooting as well as healing." 

"Yes," said Combeferre heavily. "Force is weak but powerful. Light cannot stop cannons, though it may travel faster and have a more profound effect. The future lies in the hands of the schoolmaster but the present is in the bloody grip of despots, and the schoolmaster's words will not pry it loose. I have defeated much in my soul that would otherwise keep me away from here, that is true, but though I have defeated it I have not obliterated it. Nor would I wish to. And so I understand you, though I cannot—I will not—imitate you.”

“I do not argue with you,” said Valjean. In truth he would not know how to; it seemed that Combeferre was speaking more to himself than to Valjean. “I do not condemn your methods, or your wishes. But I must take a different path. My soul is not my own, you see.” 

“I do not see.” Combeferre’s mouth quirked but did not quite achieve a smile. He gestured to a man who was clutching his shoulder. “But I thank you for helping us, nonetheless.” The man came over; Combeferre silently returned to his work, and Valjean to his thoughts.


End file.
